The Lightsider Duelist: A ToV Tale

The chamber's silence presses against me, a suffocating weight, as if the air itself holds its breath after the recess. My boots scuff the polished stone floor, its surface smooth as a starship's hull but cold as Hoth's ice, sending a shiver up my spine that clashes with the ache in my cuffed wrists. The durasteel restraints bite into my skin, their edges worn but unyielding, like the scars of battles etched across my sixty-three years. Above, lumas flicker in their recessed ceiling, their soft glow pulsing like a droid's failing circuitry, casting shadows that dance across dark stone walls. Geometric runes, carved with precision, hum faintly, their light a ghostly shimmer, as if whispering secrets of a Jedi Order I thought long buried. Transparisteel panels arc high, their dim glow filtering a world beyond reach, a haze that speaks of depths I can't name—somewhere far from Ossus's golden plains. Ysalamiri cages, hidden but potent, choke the Force, their null field a void that claws at my senses, leaving me raw, tethered only to the faint echo of Tionne's silver songs in my mind, a melody weaving through the darkness.

A semi-circular platform of durasteel looms ahead, polished to a sheen that reflects the lumas' unsteady light, its three high-backed chairs stark, echoing the Jedi Temple's High Council room from holos I studied as a boy on Dantooine, but drained of any warmth. The chairs stand empty, their durasteel frames gleaming like a blade's edge, waiting for the judges who will fill them. This Master's Council, a shadow I believed died with the Praxeum's collapse after the Vong tore through Yavin, stirs a knot in my gut. Rey's New Jedi Council, known across the galaxy as the shield of light, is the true Order—how does this relic dare judge me? The thought of Saria, her calm voice steadying Chandrila's nobles, and Kalia, her training saber's fierce hum, anchors me. I stand taller, my white braid damp against my neck, my council robes frayed at the hem, their Noghri leather creaking as I shift.

Footfalls break the silence, a steady rhythm like blaster fire echoing off duracrete. The audience streams in, their regular robes—plain, patched, unadorned—rustling like dry reeds in a Tatooine wind, their faces a mix of scorn and uncertainty. They settle onto tiered benches to my left, their murmurs rising, a low hum like a starship's idling engines, some eyes catching the lumas' glow with a flicker of doubt. Seraphine glides in next, her silken robes a liquid gleam, catching the light like a moon's reflection on a still lake. She takes her bench, fingers tracing the edge of her sleeve, her gaze sharp, calculating, a shift from the smugness of before, as if she's reading the room's currents. Thalor follows, his dark cloak flowing with the precision of a Soresu duelist, each step a measured strike, his sharp features set, eyes burning with a zealot's fire that chills me more than the stone beneath my boots. Behind him, the judges enter—three figures, robed in dark, heavy fabric that swallows the lumas' light, their attire cut like Jedi Masters' robes, austere and commanding, unlike the audience's simpler garb. Toren Kaelith leads, broad-shouldered, his presence an unyielding mass, like a Mon Calamari cruiser's keel. The two flanking him, their faces shadowed, move with silent purpose, their robes dragging like a storm's trailing edge as they ascend the platform and take their seats, hands folded, eyes hidden. Kaelith's scarred hand rises, a gesture sharp as a saber's ignition, silencing the murmurs. "This assembly is now back in session," he intones, his voice a deep rumble, like thunder rolling over Ossus's plains, carrying the weight of a Praxeum ghost I thought lost to time. "The trial of Kam Solusar presses forward." The words land like a turbolaser blast, and the chamber holds its breath, the runes' shimmer flickering, a faint pulse against the ysalamiri's weight. My cuffs scrape as I shift, the durasteel's bite a steady ache, but Tionne's melody hums in my thoughts, a silver thread weaving through the trial's grind. This Council, this echo of a dead era, dares to challenge Rey's Order, the galaxy's beacon from Coruscant to the Rim.

Thalor glides forward, his cloak whispering across the stone like a shadow spilling over Dantooine's dusk, his voice sharp as a shattered kyber's edge, cutting through the chamber's stale, ozone-thick air. "Kam Solusar," he intones, each syllable a hammer on durasteel, as if he's a Coruscanti arbiter laying bare a traitor's heart, "your reforms poison the Jedi's soul. Your scattered councils, your courtship follies—they unravel the Code's steel, inviting chaos to fester where order once stood." His fingers flick toward the platform, poised as if to summon proof, though none comes, his words alone a blade to spark the clash of ideals to follow. The accusation stabs deep, its lie a twisted mirror of the Order I've built with Rey, Ahsoka, Cal and Quinlan. My chest tightens, confusion warring with fury—how does this Master's Council, a ghost I thought burned out with Yavin's ruins, dare to stand in judgment? The audience's murmurs churn, a bitter gale through Ryloth's canyons, most spitting venom, though a few pause, their eyes catching the lumas' dim pulse, as if my earlier stand sways them. Seraphine leans forward, her silk robes glinting like a blade's edge under starlight, her fingers curling tight, a cold witness to my supposed corruption.

I rise, cuffs scraping like a droid's rusted gears, their bite flaring through wrists scarred by decades of battles—Vjun's acid rains, Yavin's Vong-scorched jungles. My grey eyes lock onto Thalor's, sharp as a lightsaber's ignited edge, my voice a low growl, rough as the Starfield Roamer's hull battered by Kessel's spice winds. "You call this a Master's Council?" I say, each word heavy, deliberate, carrying the weight of a galaxy I've fought to shield. "I know you and Kaelith from Praxeum days, when Yavin's stones still stood. That Council died in the Vong's fire—its ashes scattered before Ben Solo burned Ossus. What shadow dares claim its name now, dragging me before this farce of charges?" My scarred brow furrows, confusion a tight knot in my chest, anger simmering at this farce. The lumas' dim pulse hums like a failing hyperdrive, casting shadows that flicker across the stone, and I lean forward, cuffs rattling, my stance unyielding despite the ysalamiri's hollow silence choking the Force. "You chain yourself to the past, Thalor, mistaking it for the only truth," I continue, my voice rising, a weathered blade honed by sixty-three years. "Your Code, your rigid dogma—it's blind to the galaxy's true light, its hope. The New Jedi Council—sees beyond those walls that stop understanding. Our councils, our bonds, they weave the galaxy's voices into strength. We've held worlds together, from Chandrila's misty valleys to Lothal's plains, where your old ways would have let them fracture." I pause, breath steady, the air stinging my throat. "You accuse me of perversion, but your purity failed us—before Order 66, before Luke's temple fell. The galaxy knows our reborn Council as its guardians, its light built on action, not stagnation. I stand ready as ever, Thalor, but I don't understand your charges on a past that's already been redeemed—only that they're lies spun to bury the progress our Order has accomplished." The audience's hisses surge, a storm across Tatooine's dunes, most glaring with contempt, but a few robes still, their murmurs fading. Seraphine's fingers curl tight, her silk robes a glinting shard under the lumas, her gaze cold, fixed on my downfall, a witness to my supposed betrayal of the Jedi way.

Thalor's eyes narrow, his voice a kyber's sharp hum, cutting through the chamber's hum. "You speak of progress, Solusar, but your reforms are a schism, a fracture in the Jedi's foundation. Attachments—your marriage to Tionne, your daughters—they are a direct violation of 'There is no emotion, there is peace.' Anakin Skywalker's fall proves the danger of such bonds. Love leads to fear, fear to anger, anger to hate, hate to suffering. You've invited that path into the Order." I clench my fists, the cuffs digging deeper, my voice steady despite the sting. "Anakin's fall wasn't love's fault—it was fear and possessiveness, twisted by Palpatine's hand. Love, balanced with duty, strengthens us. Tionne has been my anchor, not my downfall. Together, we've faced the Yuuzhan Vong, protected younglings on Yavin, rebuilt what was lost. Our daughters—Saria, Kalia—they're Jedi Knights who serve with honor. They're proof that attachments don't corrupt; they inspire." Thalor paces, his cloak snapping like a banner in a Coruscanti storm. "Inspiration? You call it inspiration when your bonds could be exploited? What if your enemies threaten your family to turn you to the dark side? Your love makes you vulnerable, Solusar, and through you, the entire Order." I shake my head, my voice firm. "If such a threat came, I'd face it with the strength of my love and my duty. The dark side preys on fear and weakness. My family gives me resolve, not vulnerability. The old Code's detachment bred isolation, made Jedi cold, blind to the Republic's corruption until it was too late." The chamber's tension coils tighter, the audience's murmurs like static over Corellia's shipyards. Some nod at Thalor's words, their eyes glinting with approval, while others shift, their robes rustling, perhaps swayed by my stand. Seraphine watches, her expression unreadable, a predator studying prey, her fingers still on her sleeve, as if weighing the room's shifting currents.

Thalor stops, his gaze piercing. "And what of your decentralized councils? The Jedi have always been united under one leadership, one voice. 'There is no chaos, there is harmony'—your councils are chaos incarnate, fragmenting our strength." I meet his stare, unflinching. "The galaxy isn't uniform, Thalor. Different worlds, different needs. Centralized power failed us when Palpatine rose, when the old Council couldn't see his shadow. By decentralizing, we ensure resilience. Each council adapts to its region, fostering understanding and strength. It's not chaos—it's harmony through an embrace, a Jedi Order that listens to the galaxy's voices." Thalor's face twists, his voice rising. "An embrace you say? You weaken us with division. The Jedi's strength lies in unity, in a single Council guiding all. Your scattered councils invite discord, schisms, vulnerability to external threats." I lean forward, cuffs clanking, my voice a low growl. "And your unity invited annihilation. Order 66 proved that a single point of failure can destroy us. Our local councils—they've held worlds together. The New Jedi Council thrives because it adapts, because it trusts its Jedi to serve where they stand." The audience's hisses swell, a storm across Tatooine's dunes, but a few faces soften, their eyes catching the lumas' flickering drone, as if my words stir doubt. Seraphine's gaze remains cold, her silk robes a glinting shard, her intent clear—she wants my downfall, my reforms undone. Thalor shifts tack, his voice a hiss like a blaster's charge building. "And your Je'daii alliance? Consorting with those who flirt with darkness, who reject the light entirely? You invite corruption into our midst, Solusar. The Je'daii's so-called balance is a slippery slope to the dark side."

I take a deep breath, steadying myself against the ysalamiri's smothered void. "The Je'daii seek to understand both light and dark, to find true balance. By learning from them, we guard against the dark side's temptations. Rey sees this—Cal, Ahsoka, Quinlan—they all do. It's not rejection of the light; it's strengthening it through knowledge, through understanding what we fight." Thalor's eyes blaze, his voice sharp as a saber's ignition. "Knowledge of darkness corrupts. The old Masters knew this, forbade it for a reason. You risk leading the Order astray with your reckless curiosity." I stand taller, my voice rising, a weathered blade honed by battles. "The old Masters were wise but not infallible. Their ways led to Order 66, to the Jedi's near extinction. Their detachment blinded them to Palpatine's rise, to the Republic's rot. We must evolve, Thalor, or we perish. The New Jedi Council learns from the past, not chains itself to it." Thalor's voice drops, a low hiss, theatrical and unrelenting. "You speak of evolution, but your reforms echo the failures of the past. Luke's temple fell because of your progressive ideas infiltrating the Order. Ben Solo's betrayal proves the danger of deviation. If you had adhered to the Code, perhaps that tragedy could have been averted." Ossus's embers flare in my mind, pulling me back to Yavin 4 during that humid night when the galaxy's hope shattered.

The air clung to my skin, thick with humidity, heavy as a cloak soaked in Endor's rains. Yavin 4's jungle pressed close, its emerald canopy rustling under a warm breeze, the distant chirp of insects a low hum, like a starship's idling thrusters. Bioluminescent vines curled around the Massassi temple's base, their glow pulsing faintly, casting silver flecks across the moss-covered platform where I stood, my boots sinking into damp earth. The Praxeum's ziggurats loomed in the twilight, their duracrete walls pitted by Vong bioforms, scorched scars from battles that had shattered our haven years before, in 25 ABY. The air carried the acrid tang of charred vines, a reminder of that war's toll, now layered with a fresher wound—a distress signal from Ossus, its static crackling through the comm unit at my belt, a cry cut short by silence. I was forty-eight, my face lined with scars from Byss's tortures, my white braid tucked beneath my robes, their leather creaking as I shifted, the weight of my green lightsaber absent from my thigh, left in the Praxeum's vault for the night. The Force hummed faintly, a distant echo, its currents troubled, like a kyber crystal misaligned. Tionne stood beside me, her silver hair catching Yavin's moons, her robes pale as starlight, her presence a quiet anchor. Her double viol rested against a stone, its strings silent, a rare pause in her songs that had steadied us through the Vong's chaos. A handful of Praxeum survivors gathered—Streen, his weathered face taut, Kirana Ti, her Dathomiri tattoos stark in the moonlight, and a young Jedi named Dorsk, his green skin pale, eyes wide with dread. We'd felt it before the signal came—a ripple in the Force, a scream of loss that tore through the galaxy, centered on Ossus. The comm unit sparked again, its static a crackle I'll never forget. A voice broke through, ragged, barely coherent—a young Jedi, one of Luke's students, her words choked with sobs. "Ossus… it's gone… Ben Solo… fire…" The signal died, leaving only the jungle's hum, the vines' acrid tang sharper in my throat. My chest tightened, breath shallow, as if the Force itself had recoiled. Tionne's hand found my arm, her touch steady, her blue eyes searching mine. "Kam," she whispered, voice soft as her songs, "what does it mean?" I shook my head, words failing, my scarred brow furrowing. The Praxeum's fall had been a wound, its ziggurats scarred by Vong coral, but this—this was annihilation. Luke's temple, his fragile hope rebuilt on Ossus, was now only ash. Ben Solo, his nephew, his prized pupil, had turned, a shadow rising from the light.

Streen stepped forward, his voice rough as Corellian gravel. "Luke's gone silent. I felt… nothing from him. Just fire, then emptiness." Kirana Ti's hand rested on her saber hilt, her eyes glinting with Dathomiri fire. "Ben Solo did this? How? Why?" Dorsk's voice trembled, barely above a whisper. "The temple was our future… what's left now?" The questions hung, unanswered, the jungle's mist coiling around us, its weight cloying, like the despair that threatened to choke me. I paced, boots sinking into the moss, the Force's troubled hum a distant wail, echoes of screams—young Jedi, their lightsabers falling, huts blazing under a storm-wracked sky. Ossus, a forested valley of wooden huts circling a stone training hall, was no more. Luke's dream, built to mend the Jedi's wounds, had burned, and with it, the galaxy's hope. I stopped, facing the group, my voice low, heavy with the weight of Yavin's scars. "This… this is its legacy." Tionne's eyes glistened, her hand tightening on my arm. "Kam, we can't let it end here," she said, her voice a melody cutting through the mist. "The Jedi must endure." Streen nodded, his weathered face set. "Luke's vision wasn't the Code—it was us, the light we carry." Kirana Ti's gaze hardened, her voice fierce. "If Ben's turned, we hunt him. We rebuild, stronger." Dorsk's shoulders straightened, his voice steadier. "For the younglings… we have to try."

I looked to the moons, their light weaving through the canopy, a faint promise amid the despair. The Praxeum's fall had scarred us, its ziggurats crumbling under Vong bioforms, but we'd endured, training younglings in secret, shielding survivors. Ossus's loss was deeper, a wound that bled the galaxy's hope, seeding the First Order's rise. Yet Tionne's words echoed—the Jedi must endure. The old Code's purity, its demand for emotional void, had failed Luke, leaving him to face Ben's darkness alone. We needed balance, a way to temper emotion with duty, to weave the galaxy's voices into strength, not silence them under one spire. "We'll rebuild some day," I said, voice resolute, scarred durasteel. "Not with the old Code's chains, but with the Force's light, its adaptability. We'll train, we'll protect, until the Jedi rise again." The group nodded, their faces set, the jungle's hum a quiet chorus, the vines' pulse a faint heartbeat. The moons hung low, their glow a beacon through the mist, and I felt the Force shift, a flicker of resolve amid the wail. We'd lost Ossus, Luke, the temple's young—but the light endured, in us, in the Praxeum's scarred stones, in the galaxy's stars.

The jungle's mist dissolving into the chamber's heavy air, the ysalamiri's void slamming back into my awareness, a weight on my soul. My breath catches, the stone's ice-veined chill grounding me, the lumas' stuttering drone a harsh return. Thalor stands before the platform, his cloak rippling, his voice pressing, a kyber's hum. "You see, Solusar, your reforms repeat Luke's folly, leading us to ruin." The audience's hisses churn, a gale across Ryloth's badlands, most glaring, though a few robes still, their murmurs fading. Seraphine's gaze sharpens, her silk a glinting shard, her intent cold. Kaelith's scarred hand rests on the platform, his presence unyielding, the shadowed judges silent, their robes a voiceless press. My grey eyes burn, yet my resolve strengthens. "Luke's temple fell because your Code chained him, blind to Ben's emerging shadow. Our Council learns from the mistakes of our past, weaving the galaxy's light into strength. I stand here ready to serve its call, but your charges are nothing but lies spun to bury our truth." The chamber's tension coils, the runes' glacial echo fading, as Thalor steps forward, ready to press his case further. His voice cuts the air, a kyber's sharp hum, each word a prosecutorial strike honed by a Coruscanti arbiter's craft. "Your reforms are only but the beginning of your heresy," he declares, gesturing to the platform with a hand steady as a saber's arc, "witness this—Rey Skywalker's outreach, a call that birthed your so-called New Jedi Council, tainted by her Sith blood and unfit for the light's purity." His fingers flick, and a holoprojector flares to life on the platform, its blue shimmer flickering like a starship's failing shield, casting ethereal light across the stone. The audience's murmurs swell, a storm's roar across Ryloth's canyons, most leaning forward, their eyes glinting with scorn, though a few pause, their plain robes catching the lumas' shimmering drone.

The holo-vid coalesces to that moment on Yavin 4, the mist-cloaked ruins of the Praxeum in the background, scarred vines twisting around duracrete walls pitted by Vong bioforms. The air in the projection feels humid, heavy with the tang of scorched foliage, the moons casting a silver glow through the canopy. Rey Skywalker stands there, her figure resolute, her yellow lightsaber clipped to her belt, its hilt gleaming like a beacon forged from Exegol's ashes. Her face, marked by the battle's scars, holds a quiet determination, her voice crackling through the holo, earnest, laced with the weariness of victory and loss. "Kam, Tionne Solusar," she says, her tone steady but urgent, "the galaxy's still hurting from Exegol, from Palpatine's fall. The First Order's remnants scatter, but the Jedi… we're scattered too. Luke and his temple are gone, but his dream isn't. I'm calling on all the Jedi that are left, those with the drive to answer the galaxy's call, to be its protectors again. You two—I need your wisdom, your experience, to rebuild the Order, not as it was, but as it must be now."

Tionne steps into the projection's frame, her silver hair catching the moonlight, her robes pale as starlight. She nods, her voice warm, reflective, like a melody from her double viol. "Rey, the Praxeum's scars still ache, but your vision… it resonates. The galaxy needs healers as much as warriors. If we rebuild, let it be with compassion at its core." Rey's eyes brighten, her posture straightening. "Exactly, Tionne. A Council that reaches out, that handles diplomacy, trade, agreements with the worlds we protect. No more isolation—we'll be the bridge, the shield. Kam, what say you?" In the holo, I stand beside Tionne, my face younger, my white braid tucked under my robes, my green lightsaber at my side. My voice echoes through the chamber, resolute, carrying the weight of Yavin's ruins. "Rey, you're right—After Luke's temple burned, I promised we'd rise stronger. Ossus… yes, we'll rebuild there, honor the fallen with a Council that serves the galaxy's call. Count us in." The holo fades, Rey's smile lingering, a flash of hope in the mist.

Thalor's voice snaps back, a vibroblade's whine, his gesture sharp as he turns to the platform. "See? Rey, spawn of Palpatine's shadow, dares lead a Jedi Council!? Her Sith blood poisons your reforms, a dark lineage unfit for the light's purity. This outreach is hollow, her untested mantle a shallow mimicry of Luke's legacy, pandering to galactic sentiment rather than upholding the Code. Your New Jedi Council is built on lies, not Tython's truths." His words strike like a turbolaser, twisting Rey's vision into heresy, the audience's hisses surging, a gale across Dathomir's cliffs, most glaring with contempt, though a few robes still, their murmurs fading under the lumas' shimmering drone. Seraphine's fingers tighten, her silk a glinting shard, her gaze cold, a witness to the perversion she believes I've wrought. The cuffs scraping like a speeder's failing repulsors, pain flaring through wrists scarred by decades of war. My voice scarred durasteel, rough as the Starfield Roamer's hull battered by Kessel's asteroid storms bellows through. "You twist Rey's words to fit your agenda, Thalor," I say, words heavy, drawn out like a holocron's slow reveal, "but her call was the galaxy's salvation, not its poison.

The audience's murmurs churn, a bitter gale through Ryloth's badlands, most spitting scorn, but a few voices falter, their plain robes catching the lumas' shimmering drone. Kaelith's gaze hardens, an iron wall, the shadowed judges beside him unmoving, their silence a judgment of its own. Thalor's jaw tightens, his Soresu-trained stance rigid, but he steps closer, his voice a low hiss, like a blaster's charge building. "Rey's Sith blood is not something than can be ignored—it's fact. Her Palpatine lineage taints everything she touches. How can a spawn of darkness lead the light?" I meet his stare, unflinching. "Rey rejected that shadow, Thalor. She defeated Palpatine on Exegol, her light stronger for facing her bloodline's darkness. It's not taint—it's triumph." Thalor's eyes flash, his voice rising. "Triumph? Her untested path, her mimicry of Skywalker's name—it's shallow, pandering to the galaxy's whims, not the Code's purity. Your Council is a mockery, born of her hollow call." I straighten, cuffs grinding, pain flaring through my arms, a fire tempered by years of scars. "Hollow? Rey's call was the galaxy's cry answered. Post-Exegol, the First Order's remnants scattered, but the Jedi's light flickered. She saw that, Thalor, and reached out to those who could rebuild—not with old chains, but with the Force's evolving will. Our Council handles diplomacy with the New Republic, trade with the Hutt cartels, agreements with Outer Rim worlds—we're the bridge, the shield the galaxy needs." The audience's hisses swell, a storm's roar, but a few faces falter, their eyes flickering with doubt. Thalor shifts tack, his voice a hiss like a saber's ignition. "And your Je'daii alliance? Consorting with those who flirt with darkness, who reject the light entirely? You invite corruption into our midst. The Je'daii's so-called balance is a slippery slope to the dark side."

The holo-vid coalesces, projecting a scene from Ossus's council hall, the kyber-lit walls gleaming with runes etched in the stone, a chamber rebuilt from the temple's ashes, its air heavy with the scent of blooming Ossus vines and distant rain. Rey Skywalker sits at the head, her yellow lightsaber clipped to her belt, her face resolute, marked by Exegol's scars. Cal Kestis leans against a column, his arms crossed, his BD-1 droid perched on his shoulder, chirping softly. Ahsoka Tano stands with her white lightsabers crossed, her montrals tall, her expression thoughtful. Quinlan Vos lounges in a chair, his Kiffar tattoos stark, his eyes sharp. I sit among them, my green lightsaber at my side, my white braid tucked under my robes. Ezra Bridger stands before us, his figure older, his Loth-wolf emblem on his sleeve, his voice steady as he reports, the weight of his liaison role evident, the holo's image slightly grainy, as if recorded from a hidden spy's vantage, shadows creeping at the edges. Ezra's voice echoes through the chamber, resolute, carrying the gravitas of a liaison bridging two worlds. "The disturbance Revan spoke of—the ice moons shattering—it's real, confirmed in what we've uncovered separately. The Rakata relics point to Lehon, to a hidden city called Zha-Korran. Revan believes there's something there, a technological marvel that could change everything." Rey leans forward, her yellow saber hilt glinting under the kyber lights. "And this joint expedition—Revan's Je'daii and our Order—why Lehon? What does he say about the risks?" Ezra nods, his Loth-wolf emblem catching the light, his expression a mix of awe and unease, the Council's caution palpable. "Lehon's the key, Rey. The Rakata empire fell there, and the artifacts hint at a power that could finally give us real answers as to what's causing the wails and these catastrophes to these moons. Revan's clear on what the Je'daii seek. Duality, Ashla and Bogan as one. He calls it the Grey Code— 'There is no dark side, nor a light side, there is only the Force. I will do what I must to keep the balance.' He's true to the ancient Je'daii ideals, passion yet peace, serenity yet emotion, chaos yet order. They claim to be guardians of duality."

The holo-vid pauses on Ezra's words, the Je'daii's Grey Code a promise of balance that could control the chaos and dark side in a new way. Haunted by my previous family's death at Vader's hand, I see the need for something where chaos can be controlled, for a galaxy where peace lets families thrive. Revan's way, could be the prophesied balance the Force was always supposed to bring, Ashla and Bogan woven into harmony. Thalor's voice snaps back, a vibroblade's whine, his gesture sharp as he turns to the platform. "See? Your pact with Revan's Je'daii, consorting with those who embrace darkness as balance—it's heresy, Solusar, a perversion of the Code's purity. This reveals your Council's weakness, inviting chaos where harmony should reign." His words strike like a turbolaser, twisting the partnership into treason, the audience's hisses surging, a gale across Dathomir's cliffs, most glaring with contempt, though a few robes still. "You continue to twist words, Thalor," I say, words heavy, drawn out like a holocron's slow reveal, "their alliance is what brings the galaxy's hope, not its poison." Thalor's jaw tightens, his Soresu-trained stance rigid, but he steps closer, his voice a low hiss, like a blaster's charge building. "The Je'daii's Grey Code is no hope—it's duality flirting with darkness, Ashla and Bogan as one is only a story. Our ancient Jedi knew this. Your Council embraces that chaos, Solusar, a slippery slope to the dark side." He raises his hand to resume the playback on the holo-vid. The chamber's kyber lights pulse, a faint echo of that duality, and watch myself as I lean forward in the holo-vid, my voice resolute. "Ezra, Revan's balance—it's worth keeping an open mind. Our Council's reforms, the Je'daii's duality—together could be what brings this galaxy together. Let's join them on Lehon, uncover Zha-Korran, and see where this goes."

The holo-vid fades, the council hall's kyber lights dissolving into the chamber's shimmering drone. The stone's frost-veined sting grounding me, the lumas' flickering hum a harsh return. Thalor stands before the platform, his cloak rippling, his voice pressing, a kyber's hum. "You see, Solusar, your willingly and openly agree with Revan's Je'daii that will only lead us all to ruin. It will only invite the dark side in." Kaelith's scarred hand rests on the platform, his presence unyielding, the shadowed judges silent, their robes a voiceless press. "The Je'daii partnership is an opportunity, weaving the Force's duality into our harmony. The Jedi will become the protectors of the innocent once again, leading the galaxy forward. We're already on our way to becoming the beacon of which I speak." The chamber's tension coils, the runes' glacial echo fading, as Thalor steps forward, ready for his next round of accusations, the trial's weight heavier than Lehon's secrets. He opens his mouth, his voice building, but before he can unleash his next strike, one of the robed judges flanking Kaelith leans in, her hooded face close to his ear, whispering something inaudible, a murmur lost in the chamber's heavy air. Kaelith's broad shoulders tense, his scarred hand gripping the durasteel arm of his chair, knuckles whitening like Hoth's ice under pressure. His eyes strain, a flicker of tension creasing his brow, the unyielding mass of his presence cracking just enough to reveal the storm beneath. The other judge, on his opposite flank, leans in as well, his shadowed hood dipping low, adding to the heated exchange, their voices a low buzz, inaudible but urgent, arm movements and gestures betraying the privacy they seek—fingers jabbing the air, hands slicing like sabers in debate, robes rustling with agitation. The discussion escalates, a voiceless clash that ripples through the platform, Kaelith's face hardening further, his deep rumble of a voice cutting in with a sharp word I can't catch, the three of them locked in a tangle of authority that feels out of place, as if the trial's script has fractured.

The audience stirs with commotion, a low hum like a starship's idling engines, their plain robes shifting on the tiered benches, eyes darting between the platform and me, a mix of scorn and uncertainty flickering in the lumas' glow. Seraphine leans forward, her silk robes a liquid gleam, her fingers tracing the edge of her sleeve, her gaze sharp, calculating, as if reading the currents of this unexpected turn. Thalor pauses, his step halting, his cloak settling like a shroud, his eyes narrowing at the platform, the zealot's fire in them dimming to a smolder, frustration etching his sharp features. I stand chained, cuffs biting into my wrists, the durasteel's worn edges unyielding, like the scars of battles across my sixty-three years—Vjun's acid rains, Yavin's Vong-scorched jungles. My white braid sticks damp to my neck, my council robes frayed at the hem, Noghri leather creaking as I shift, the ysalamiri's void clawing at my senses, leaving me raw, but my resolve holds, a silver thread weaving through the confusion. This Master's Council—a shadow I thought buried with the Praxeum's fall—baffles me still, but this discord among them stirs a spark of hope, a crack in their facade.

Kaelith abruptly stands, his broad frame rising like a Mon Calamari cruiser lifting from dock, his scarred hand raised, silencing the murmurs with a gesture that carries the weight of a Praxeum ghost. "This assembly is in recess until morning," he intones, his voice a deep rumble, like thunder rolling over Ossus's plains, the authority in it absolute, yet laced with a strain that echoes the heated whispers. The words land like a turbolaser blast, the chamber holding its breath, the runes' shimmer flickering, a faint pulse against the ysalamiri's weight. He turns to a guard at the edge of the platform, a figure in dark armor, face hidden behind a visor, his blaster rifle slung low. "Take the accused back to his cell," Kaelith orders, his tone final, no room for debate, his eyes flicking to me with that unyielding mass, the tension still straining their depths.

The guard nods, his boots thudding on the stone as he approaches, the sound echoing like blaster fire off duracrete, his gloved hand gripping my arm with a firm, mechanical hold, the pressure biting through my robes. I don't resist, my stance unyielding despite the cuffs' scrape, the durasteel's bite flaring as he turns me toward the chamber's side door, a narrow archway of dark stone framed by more geometric runes, their light a ghostly shimmer fading as we move. The audience's murmurs rise again, a low hum like idling engines, some eyes following me with scorn, others with a flicker of doubt, their plain robes rustling like dry reeds in a Tatooine wind. Seraphine watches, her silk a glinting shard, her fingers curling tight, her gaze cold, a predator denied her kill for now. Thalor stands frozen, his cloak still, his sharp features set in frustration, the zealot's fire banked but not extinguished, as if the recess steals his momentum. The guard pulls me through the archway, the chamber's ozone-thick air giving way to a corridor's stale chill, the stone walls closing in, duracrete smooth and cold under my boots, the lumas here dimmer, recessed in the ceiling like failing droid eyes, casting long shadows that stretch before us. The path twists left, a sharp turn that forces me to shift my weight, the cuffs rattling like a droid's rusted gears, pain flaring through my wrists, a steady ache that clashes with the void's clawing emptiness. The corridor slopes downward, steps appearing, shallow and worn, my boots scuffing their surface, the sound echoing off the walls, a lonely rhythm in the buried depth. The air grows cooler, heavier, the scent of damp stone mingling with a faint metallic tang, like a starship's hull after a spice run, the ysalamiri's null field following, a potent cage hidden in the walls, choking the Force to a whisper I can't grasp. We turn right, the corridor narrowing, the walls brushing my shoulders, the guard's grip tightening, his visor reflecting the dim light, his silence a voiceless press.

Another turn, left this time, the steps leveling to a flat hall, doors lining the sides, durasteel slabs with small viewports, their edges worn but unyielding. The guard stops at one, his free hand punching a code into the panel, the door hissing open with a hydraulic whine, revealing the cell—a narrow space, durasteel walls scarred by time, a bunk bolted to the floor, a dim lumas in the ceiling pulsing like a failing circuitry. He pushes me in, the motion firm, my boots scraping the floor, the cuffs' bite flaring as they fall off and I stumble a step, the door sliding shut behind me with a final thud, the lock engaging with a click that echoes like a saber deactivating. The cell's air is colder, the stone beneath my feet chill-veined, the ysalamiri's void heavier here, a potent cage choking the Force to nothing, leaving me raw, tethered only to my thoughts. I sink onto the bunk, the thin mattress creaking under my weight, my council robes frayed, Noghri leather stiff against my skin, my white braid falling loose over my shoulder. The trial's weight settles, in this buried depth, the darkness presses, the recess a brief respite before the storm returns. The lumas pulses faintly, casting shadows that dance across the walls, and I close my eyes, the echo of Tionne's melody humming in my mind, a silver thread welcoming the blackness that sleep invites. Wishing it'll lead to her and I's reunion in my awaiting dreams.